


vanity

by nylondreams



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Art School, Artists, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Grocery Shopping, Love Confessions, M/M, Muses, Nude Modeling, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, i probably shouldn't have tagged jisung he's only mentioned, lots and lots of skies and colours in this one, omg i forgot the one tag i was supposed to tag, sorry abt that, taeyong too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 22:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20280553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylondreams/pseuds/nylondreams
Summary: Yuta is the meaning of oxymoron, that much you got even from the first look: his features are both angelic and erotic at the same time, he looks like he’s straight out of a pre-Raphaelite era painting; bursting pink mouth cute but full of desire, the curve of it naïve yet sharp, thick hair, long nose, heaven brown eyes seeing not right now but years and years ago especially when he zones out, a fey demeanour altogether. His hands are soft but at the same time strong and persistent, knowing how to unravel you with just a few touches here and there, his voice light and silvery but also very captivating. It’s like this: at the same time, Yuta is both love and lust, and he is perfection. And he's yours.





	vanity

**Author's Note:**

> i was bored out of my mind in neurolinguistics class, listening to my classical music playlist for some writing inspiration (violin partita no. 2 in d minor and symphony no. 7 in a major on repeat, specifically), and i actually got inspired? wrote this at one go and then never read it again except for the obligatory proofreads. so yeah. i also don't know if this is how art schools work, and english isn't my first language, so sorry if there are weird sentences and/or mistakes.
> 
> thank you for reading!

There’s something undeniably romantic about being someone’s muse, as long as there are no false pretences. You know that, and so once again you’re the one at fault because you forgot that somewhere on the way. Let yourself forget. Whatever.

You don’t know what caused that, frankly speaking. Maybe it was the way he pulled you to closer to his embrace instinctively when you were in crowded spaces, or smiled that signature bright smile of his whenever you cracked a bad joke, eyes glistening with adoration, or reminded you to sleep when he stayed the night, when you were lost inside your own world, your eyes fixated on the canvas in front of you and your brain refusing to acknowledge anything other than the painful process of creating. Over and over again, every time. Reflecting back on it now, maybe it wasn’t a single thing, but perhaps a combination of small moments like these that culminated into your unravelling. After all, you’re an artist, and he should’ve known you can’t be trusted.

Maybe both of you’ve slipped.

Yuta is the meaning of _oxymoron_, that much you got even from the first look: his features are both angelic and erotic at the same time. He looks like he’s straight out of a pre-Raphaelite era painting; bursting pink mouth cute but full of desire, the curve of it naïve yet sharp, thick hair, long nose, heaven brown eyes seeing not right now but years and years ago especially when he zones out, a fey demeanour altogether.

After the first sex, your theory is further proven. His hands are soft but at the same time strong and persistent, knowing how to unravel you with just a few touches here and there. That night, he had whispered things, oh _so_ dirty things to the air, voice light and silvery but also very captivating. It’s like this: at the same time, Yuta is both love and lust and he is perfection, he is the man poets have been writing about for centuries and never been able to quite catch the essence of, because they will never be able to describe something so holy with their dry words; he is a living sculpture, You don’t believe in a god but he is God, and now in the darkest of the night, he is fast asleep next to her with one arm casually slung over your stomach. The rest of Nakamoto Yuta lies on his belly, indolent and princely, and you inspect his fingers laying on your sternum, not moving, and think, absentmindedly, that _it’s only fair to play with them_. With that, Yuta opens his eyes so slowly in his half-asleep-half-awake state, sending the softest of smiles your way when they lock gazes, yet it’s still a little bit mischievous. Like he enjoys being watched. He does.

Even when he caught your stare for the first time, it had felt like he knew all along that he was being watched, yet he had no problem with it. He was confident in himself, and his eyes had stated that fact perfectly. You were not, not usually, but you had been sitting on the uncomfortable cafeteria chair for way longer than one was supposed to be, and your fingers ached with the thought of finally finishing the sketch and dropping the pencil, so you were too impatient to feel insecure at that moment. Yuta was his name, even though you weren’t going to find it out until their second encounter, and he had smiled at you, and then winked, his face saying something like _I know what you’re doing and I’m enjoying it_, even though you were expecting more of a _what the fuck are you doing?_ He was shocking back then and he is shocking now: he is a hill with thousands of flowers blooming at once and you can’t bring yourself to look away from it. He is a catastrophe waiting to happen, a cardiac arrest that never stops.

And he doesn’t care for anything more than he needs to. What you had been doing for the past hour (two hours?) back there definitely wasn’t appropriate; sitting at the cafeteria area of a museum, sketching an attractive person you didn’t know in the slightest like the wacky nutcase artist you were, but when you inevitably locked eyes, he hadn’t even look bothered a bit. If anything, he had straightened in his seat, then rested his chin in his palm almost as if he was posing, lips curling up pleasantly. There were four more people sitting with him on the round table, and lots of others were all around the place; kids running around, babies crying, young girls and boys sitting together chatting loudly, and guides shouting orders, but ever since you had spotted Yuta amongst the crowd, the world had stopped spinning momentarily, only to start again in the other direction, while all the noise quieted down. The rest had just been you, decorating the Space with your pencil and countless pages from your quality sketchpad. You hadn’t talked that day, but later, after your first time together while you two laid on the sheets (not under because it was hot), Yuta had confessed he wanted to do so. You had to use all your willpower to leave his embrace upon that, because he was just the perfect embrace you never knew you needed, walking up to your desk and rummaging through your various drawing stuff before finding your sketchbook and jumping back in. You had spent the rest of the night looking at your drawings of Yuta from that day. Yuta looking at his left. Yuta fishing something out of his bag with a frown on his pretty face. Yuta, sitting straight on the uncomfortable chairs with his chin resting on his palm, the daintiest of looks in his eyes. Yuta, your muse.

After the museum, their second encounter had happened in your art class, or where you liked to refer to as _your_ _territory_. Yuta was in _your_ territory, all pleasant smiles and refined moves, and you had almost dropped your easel on your foot trying to rearrange it, because, _what the fuck._

“Class, this is Nakamoto Yuta,” the teacher had said, voice bright as always while she introduced him, “And he will be modelling for us today, as Taeyong fell sick.”

It was absurd— no, it was _beyond_ absurd. Really, what were the changes of the person you were sketching randomly weeks ago in a museum cafeteria to show up in your art class as your new nude model? You rubbed your eyes, pinched yourself on the arm hard, and Yuta had the audacity to actually _smirk_ at you while he placed his bag on the floor and sat on the marble statue placed in the middle of the suddenly-overly-hot room. He was wearing a salmon coloured silk robe, and you could swear the fabric shone every time he made so much as raising his arm or crossing his legs; the whole concept of him was mesmerizing, so much that when an image of Yuta suddenly appeared in your mind, him under dim lights, wrapped in rose-gold, translucent waves that constantly caressed his body whenever he moved his body, you didn’t know how to get rid of it.

On the background, Ms. Kim was still talking.

“Today I decided to give you a theme,” she was announcing, “One I’m sure you’ll like…”

But the rest of her words had been nothing but white noise as Yuta leaned down to get rid of his shoes, then his robes, then… _holy_ was a word you had always liked.

“Okay guys, go wild,” Ms. Kim clapped, effectively pulling you out of your trance, “I want to see your best work so far, we are on the brink of graduation after all!”

The next few hours had been kind of a torture, but it was only because you were dancing right on the thin line between pleasure and pain the whole time. Also, you were awkward as fuck. You were awkward as if your life depended on it, as your neighbour’s kid, Jisung, had once put it out not so unkindly. Jisung was also awkward as fuck.

Back to the scorching hot class, shades of red and blood orange everywhere, your hands had never been clammier before, and you could swear every time a student asked Yuta to turn his head to the right, he used that to his advantage by locking eyes with you. You were a professional, or at least you were training to be one, but you really weren’t sure if you had done a good job pretending you weren’t about to drop your palette straight onto the floor (you _did_ do a pretty good job, as Yuta had confirmed at your third not-date, the corner of his mouth glistening with vanilla ice cream. You hadn’t even thought for a moment before lurching forward and kissing the spot, the flustered face Yuta pulled was more than worth it).

It wasn’t a surprise when Yuta put on his robe and made his way towards her once the class had ended. “Nakamoto Yuta.”

You told him your own name.

Yuta had inspected your face for a moment, the late afternoon sun illuminating his features on all the right places. Where every other person would look jaundiced under the curtain-filtered sunlight, Yuta looked otherworldly. He looked like a dream but he was better than a dream, because he was overwhelmingly real.

A tilt of his chin, motioning for your artwork, and one corner of his mouth curling upwards slightly. “Show me, darling.”

So you, his darling, had shown Nakamoto Yuta everything. It was the canvas you had been painting on at first, then it was the way you moved your body against his own, later that night, at your place because it was closer. Yuta was observant, he had also caught a glimpse of your soul in the process, but you figured it was only natural because you were both artists in your own ways. You hadn’t been able to care so much when in return Yuta showed you how well he knew how to use his mouth, in every way possible. You hadn’t been able to care so much when in return Yuta had held your hand, pressing it to his chest. You were sure that day that your hearts beat the same rhythm. It wasn’t poetic or deep, wasn’t a metaphor, it was simply a fact.

“Baby,” Yuta would often say, “sweetheart, angel, honey, darling, _my love_…” your area of proficiency was only painting, but you were sure Sicheng, the blond boy from the Chinese Literature department, would never be able to read you any poetry that sounded more melodic than those string of words. Whatever music Taeil created would just lack a certain beat. A certain _something_. Something that was hidden deep inside Yuta, who so graciously had shared it with you like it held no power, like that’s all he ever wanted.

That was then. Now, almost three months after the storm, you are lying on his bed at almost four in the morning, and you think Yuta looks like Michelangelo’s David, but all the non-existent flaws are corrected. It’s probably the effect of after-sex that makes him look so blissful under the blankets, but you don’t care, you just touch his cheek gingerly. _Do I dare disturb the universe? _Something is turning, changing, your galaxies are realigning out there, your constellations going on a mission to find new homes inside each other’s hearts, but you don’t care. “Sleep, doll,” Yuta mutters, and you just sleep.

Then morning arrives after what feels like only a few minutes, but it’s summer and in summer, minutes tend to stretch into hours, centuries, dripping into each other like molten chocolate, so you can’t be so sure. It doesn’t really matter either. What matters is that you usually wake up earlier than Yuta does, and this morning is the same.

For a brief moment, you contemplate whether you should get up and make yourself some tea, or to sketch him; the decision is easy. You untangle your limbs but let your fingers sit on his chest for a moment longer, inside of where his heart beats a lazy morning rhythm. Two more seconds of that, and you know you’ll be asleep again.

The dawn is breaking outside, though, and who are you if you don’t let yourself fall in love with the heavens a bit more every day? Your little artist soul deserves that. The previous night’s heavy purples are dissolving into a softer shade of lilac when you finally get up, an idea urging you. You put on Yuta’s shirt on purpose as you grab your drawing utensils from the bedside table, not even remembering when you left them there. You sit on the windowsill, back to the wall so you can see both the sky and your muse, thinking too brightly for the morning. It’s something like,_ I may not be able to see him together with the sky, but that doesn’t mean I can’t draw them so either_. There are hours before you reach your own apartment where the paints and canvases are, though, so you’ll stick to sketching. It’s okay.

As Yuta lies under grey sheets covering the bottom half of his body, his hand awkwardly angled because you were holding onto it just a moment ago, first pink, then orange with a golden hue to it follows suit, painting the sky into a detailed artwork. So once again you fall in love with it; you had always loved the quietude of the early mornings, felt at ease thinking the only things awake apart from her are the birds practicing their daily choruses. There’s a secret bond between you and the morning sun shining tentatively through the clouds and the sleepers are never going to be a part of it.

You pry your eyes away from the window and look at Yuta behind your sketchpad, drinking his sleeping figure in shamelessly.

Dawn breaks over Nakamoto Yuta like waves crashing over a shore. Tenuous sunlight is washing through the halfway closed curtains and collapsing over the sharp edges of his shoulder blades and his nose before receding as brisk, his silver bracelet is shining on his spotless skin. When awake, Yuta is loud and unabashed, gets worked up too easily, but a sleeping Yuta is relaxed and quiet, eternally soft. Awake Yuta is shameless, fearless in a way that makes you tremble in a way that’s so unlike you, but now, he looks almost _shy_.

Affection surges through your body until your lips pull up into a hazy smile, full of adoration.

It only grows brighter when Yuta opens his eyes slowly, putting his hand out after a moment of adjusting to the room. He mutters, with the essential groggy morning voice, “Come here.”

It’s dangerous in the way it’s so nonchalant, but you take the offer anyway, dropping your sketchpad and pencil by the windowsill as you all but run to the bed, into his sleep-warm embrace while Yuta turns onto his back, arms wide open.

You lust for Yuta’s touch, his fingers across your skin, his lips on yours. Yuta longs for your embrace, your intoxicating kisses, that look in your eyes when he knows you’re thinking about him. You make it work.

“Morning.” You mutter, shivering in delight as Yuta hugs your waist, one of his fingers drawing circles on your side under your —his— shirt absentmindedly.

“Morning.” Parrots Yuta from under you, watching you position yourself in his arms. His heart clenches suddenly, a warm feeling spilling all over his body. It’s because of you and how beautiful you are, he knows, both inside and out.

You look into each other’s eyes without talking after that, and you are both aware something is up. After three months, this is finally morphing into something else; casual becoming comfortable and routine becoming love, you both know. The strings are very much attached by now. Red.

“You should wake up earlier, I miss you when you’re asleep.” You say.

Yuta snorts. “You’re such a dumbass.”

You can’t help the true smile that breaks over your face, but still say, disdainfully, “That’s awful heartfelt.”

Yuta tugs on your chin, raising his brows. “What, you want me to write you a poem or something?” he clears his throat dramatically after that. “Roses are red, violets are blue, you have a great ass, and a smile, too—”

“Oh my God,” you say, laughing and clamping a hand over Yuta’s mouth, “Shut up, Yuta, God.”

“What?” Yuta deadpans with a muffled voice, “I’m being romantic.”

You wince momentarily as you remove your fingers from his mouth. Then dryly, you say, “I think people are right when the say romance is dead.”

“Oh, I’ll show you romance.”

Before being toppled over on the bed, the last thing you catch is Yuta grinning wickedly.

You grab onto his shoulders, bare and warm as always, and Yuta pulls your leg to his body, wrapping it on his slim waist. You wait for a kiss, but gasp as Yuta lowers his head to the junction between your neck and collarbones, teeth scraping at the soft skin, fingers digging in your hip.

“I don’t think this counts as romance either.” You say, voice more breathy than you’d like. You can feel Yuta smirking against your throat.

“Well it made your breath catch, didn’t it?”

You huff in feigned annoyance, which turns into an obscene gasp as Yuta presses wet, open mouthed kisses down your chest. He comes up after that, finally, _finally_ sealing your lips in a kiss.

You kiss each other with a lack of urgency they can only find at the break of dawn, when everything is quiet and not yet luminous and the realest thing in your worlds are each other. Catching your bottom lip between his, Yuta opens his mouth to glide his tongue into yours, after that, your mouths swallow little humming noises like the cream coloured walls around you swallow the sunlight as it steadily fills the room. It’s okay. Everything is okay as you run your fingers through Yuta’s hair, tugging at the strands with just the right amount of pressure you know he likes. There’s a significant absence of energy, yet it’s eloquent in every way. Languidly, expressively, you can sense every word Yuta means to say: he says _stay_, he says, _I have feelings for you_, and, _oh_, he says, _I’m about to go down on you_. He’s great with his mouth in more ways than one. You are great at understanding what’s before you. _You make it work._

You don’t talk with words as Yuta pulls away, placing a kiss into the valley of your chest above the shirt. You just look into each other’s eyes and let your souls handle the tender moment. After that, Yuta’s lips reach below your navel in no time, leaving you shuddering, eyes squeezing at the touch.

“What about this?” Yuta asks as he mouths at you through her panties. “Does this count as romance?”

“Fuck you.” You choke out through gritted teeth, hands already flying out to grip the sheets like a lifeline.

Yuta laughs lightly, kissing along your thigh as he pulls down your underwear. “We can certainly try that too.”

A new wave of desire hits you right at your core at the words, and you buck yourr hips up impatiently. Yuta looks at you smugly, and you flush a terrible shade of red as you glare back.

There’s not much teasing, not after last night’s inferno is still burning under both of your skins, and your underwear gets pulled down and discarded on the floor unceremoniously before Yuta comes up for one last time, tugging at your chin. You open your mouth for him, letting him get what he wants without dragging it out, because patience has never been a virtue of yours and it doesn’t help that Yuta is around. His tongue grazes over your lower lip, then moves inside your mouth agonizingly slow, making the room grow hotter with every flick of his tongue.

His lips find the insides of your thighs first when he finally decides enough is enough, then knees, and even so low as your ankles, taking his sweet time. You aren’t surprised to find out you’re almost shaky with anticipation, nearly muttering a _fuck_ when his lips finally land between your legs. You remove your hands from the sheets to place them on Yuta’s head.

“You’re so beautiful babe, have I ever told you that before?” wonders Yuta, and he somehow sounds so _nerdy _that you have to laugh despite the situation.

“Yeah,” you hum, “A few times.”

You both laugh at that, but yours is cut short when Yuta remembers his mission at hand. It isn’t going to be so hard to get you off, not when you’re still sensitive, and you both know it. You have always been weak for Yuta in every way, but it’s not a problem when Yuta accepts the fact and gives back what you wants without you even having to ask. It’s mutual.

When you are close, you let out a rough “Yuta_, oh my God_.”

Yuta hums in response, the resulting vibration causing her to exhale his name once again. Your pulse is loud in your ears, so loud that you can barely hear your own voice, but you can feel Yuta’s fingers securing you in place as the world around you starts spinning in immense speed. His name spills from your mouth like a prayer, over and over again, and he accepts them as they come, encouraging you with his own hums and low groans.

“Yes baby,” he’s saying, not sure you’re even hearing him, “I know, just like that, yes, darling…”

It doesn’t last that long, not when he’s eating you out like he was born to do that, not when he’s muttering, _you’re so wet, God_, which you know, thank you very much, not when his fingers are working on you while his tongue is lowering.

“Yuta,” You say, aware you sound more than just simply wrecked, “I’m going to— I’m—”

“Come for me, love.”

And so you come, eyes wide shut, breathes heavy. Your whole body shakes as you lose control and straight up push your hips up against his face, your insides sparkling, especially your core.

Yuta stays where he is until your euphoria slowly dies down, and only then, after a full minute, he comes up to kiss you back into your senses. You feel that your structural integrity is equal to that of a pudding’s, so you lie on the bed, panting, letting Yuta’s tongue pull you back into the real world, tasting yourself on him.

“You okay?” Yuta asks, voice filled with mirth but still warm somehow. Maybe it sounds like that because you know his motives. Your head is too high on the clouds right now for you to properly care.

“Yes,” you nod, not being able to help the laughter that flows from your chest when you finally open your eyes to see Yuta’s lips and chin glistening like a damn Christmas tree. You wipe at his chin and kiss him once more, licking at your finger after.

“So, what’s the verdict?” asks Yuta, “I think the way you kept saying my name over and over again was pretty damn romantic.”

Equal pinks take over your cheeks, and you spit out without any real heat, “I hate you.”

Then something happens. Yuta is glowing like an angel with the sunlight shining behind his back, and his smile softens. “You love me.”

“Yuta…”

Yuta’s eyebrows shoot up questioningly, and you sigh.

“Yeah,” you mutter, “I love you.”

Yuta’s expression softens even more and he presses his forehead against yours. You breathe each other in, and you want to say something gross like _go shower, you smell like cum_, but you don’t. Instead your fingers stroke his jaw, his cheekbones, the shells of his ears.

“I want you in my life, baby.” Yuta mutters, his lips barely touching yours as he speaks.

What does that mean, you aren’t so sure, but you know you want the same. So you nod, and press your lips together. It’s nothing more than a chaste kiss, an innocent peck clashing with what was happening just moments ago, but you make it work.

“Yuta,” you say, “I want you in my life, too.”

The next thing Yuta does after sitting up is to stretch his elegant limbs lazily but somehow still lusciously, his bare chest arching up golden-brown. “You hungry?” he asks, “I’m craving pancakes for some reason.”

You hum. “We could go to a café.”

Yuta smiles the smile you have come to associate with his hellion antics. “Or we could go to the supermarket.” he wiggles his brows obnoxiously. “Get the ingredients. Make it ourselves.”

What are you supposed to say, no?

There’s something romantic about being someone’s muse, as long as there are no false pretences. You know that, and none of you are at fault, because this is no pretence. You are just finding your way into each other, slowly becoming one. Two supernovae crashing into each other to form a bigger, prettier star. Dying, just to begin again.

Almost three months ago, you had decided to keep everything casual, no labels, no anything. Today, it’s finally changed, it’s morphed into something different; now, you are grabbing Nakamoto Yuta’s hand as you lead them through the aisles of the supermarket tucked in the corner of the street, talking about a new painting idea, voice soft as always, and Yuta thinks he doesn’t really mind the change, not in the slightest.

You beam, and his heart soars.


End file.
